e to turn in the cards to the respective
authorities. Noting its drift course, Nelsen left the wreckage, and
hurried back to Post Seven, before other Jolly Lads could catch up and
avenge their pals.

"Fanshaw's groups will fight it out for a new leader, Joe," he said.
"That should keep them busy, for a while..."

Succeeding months were quieter. But the Tovies had lost no advantage.
They had Ceres, the biggest of the asteroids, and their colonies were
moving in on more and more others that were still untouched, closing
them, against all agreements, to any competition.

The new Archer Seven which Nelsen presently acquired, had a miniature TV
screen set in its collar. Afield, he was able to pick up propaganda
broadcasts from Ceres. They showed neat, orderly quarters, good food,
good facilities, everything done by command and plan. He wondered glumly
if that was better for men who were pitted against space. The rigid
discipline sheltered them. They didn't have to think in a medium that
might be too huge for their brains and emotions. Maybe it was more
practical than rough-and-tumble individualism. He had a bitter picture
of the whole solar system without a free mind in its whole extent--that
is, if another gigantic blowup didn't happen first...

Nelsen didn't see Ramos' new bubb, nor did he see him leave for Saturn
and its moons. The guy had avoided him, and gone secretive. But over a
year later, the news reached Nelsen at Post Eight. A man named Miguel
Ramos had got back, more dead than alive, after a successful venture,
alone, to the immediate vicinity of the Ringed Planet. His vehicle was
riddled. He was in a Pallastown hospital.

Frank Nelsen delegated his duties, and went to see Ramos. The guy seemed
hardly more than half-conscious. He had no hands left. His legs were off
at the knee. Frostbite. Only the new antibiotics he had taken along, had
kept the gangrene from killing him. There was a light safety belt across
his bed. But somehow he knew Nelsen. And his achievement seemed like a
mechanical record fixed in his mind.

"Hi, Frank," he whispered hurriedly. "I figured it right. Out there,
near Saturn, clusters of particles of frozen methane gas are floating
free like tiny meteors. The instrumented rockets didn't run into them,
and they were too light to show clearly on radar. But a bubb with a man
in it is lots bigger, and can be hit and made like a sieve. That's what
happened to those who went first. Their Arch